


Break Me

by ysse_writes



Category: Backstreet Boys, NSYNC, Popslash
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-14
Updated: 2011-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-23 17:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysse_writes/pseuds/ysse_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin can pretty much have anything he wants. But all he can think about are the things he can’t have.</p><p>Written for xaos, for the 2002 Don We Now Our Gay Apparel Christmas Secret Santa Fic Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: Don’t know them, don’t know them, not true. Fiction! No profit made and no harm intended.
> 
> Warnings: NC17 slash, dubcon. Please, if you do not understand what these terms mean or are offended by these things or if such things are illegal in your location, please do not read this story. Thank you.
> 
> Please don’t use, forward or archive without permission.

Justin’s not listening. He stopped listening ten minutes in, the moment the ‘meeting’ degenerated into a lecture. He’s getting better at this. The louder the voices get the less he hears.

“Seriously, Jup,” Chris says, exasperation making his voice higher than normal, the only reason it still manages to break through. Chris’ voice could break glass and eardrums if he set his mind to it, Justin’s sure. “What were you thinking?”

He’s thinking of Nick’s hair in the sunlight, all golden and windblown.

“The golf course? In broad daylight?”

He’s thinking of golden pale skin, sweat dripping on him, and sand digging into his back as Nick moves over him, around him, strong and fast and urgent.

“Nick Carter? Of all the goddamned people in the world?”

He’s thinking of crinkly blue eyes, blue as the sky, as any cliché, a laughing mouth, and if he squints just right he can—

Chris grabs his shoulders, forcing Justin to look at him straight into his eyes. “Will you _please_ pay attention? This is serious!”

“No,” he answers, finally, standing up to leave, ignoring the angry noises. “It’s not.”

 

Justin is six or so years old, watching a boy sing and dance on some show he’s long forgotten the name of. He turns to his mother. “There,” he says. “That’s what I want.”

She smiles. “You can do it, baby,” she answers. “You can have anything you want.”

 

Chris goes after him. Chris is his best friend and the only person, really, aside from his mom that he actually listens to. Not that he’s listening now.

“What the hell was that about?” Chris demands.

He shrugs, carelessly. “You said it was serious,” he replies, “and I said it wasn’t. End of discussion.”

“Not serious? Justin, you were doing the nasty with Nick Carter! In broad daylight!”

“On a golf course,” he nods, with mock seriousness. “Yes, I remember, I was there.”

Chris snorts, and there’s no mistaking the irritation in there. “Well, I’m glad you’re _somewhere._ Seriously, I don’t know where your head is these days.”

Justin’s head is fine. His head isn’t, has never been, the problem.

“It was a private club,” he points out. “No one saw us. You wouldn’t even know if Kevin hadn’t guilt-tripped Nick into telling and called you.” He has to let out a sardonic snort at the memory. “You realize, I have nightmares of you two getting married and trying to turn us all into one big happy boyband. Because this mother hen thing you and he both have going on is getting pretty lame. We _are_ all adults already, in case it escaped your notice.”

“Then fucking act like it,” Chris replies. “Because this angry young man routine? It’s even less attractive than the I-am-a-shy-and-unassuming-virgin-without-an-ego thing.”

Chris is the only person who can get away with saying things like that.

Justin smirks. “That’s not what Babs Walters says.”

It’s Chris’ turn to snort. “Yeah, well Miz Walters doesn’t really know you, does she?”

“Yeah, and you do. So I think you, of all people, could cut me some slack.”

Chris opens his mouth to reply, stops, then rubs his face tiredly. A flash of weariness there, of age, and Justin starts feeling a little guilty. “Look,” he says, quietly, “I’ll be more careful. And I’m here, I am. Just don’t hassle me about this, okay?”

Chris sighs, looks at him helplessly. “I just want to know why you’re so unhappy.”

Because it’s Chris, he doesn’t deny it. Instead, he smirks again. “Human condition.”

Chris whaps him on the head, hard. “Stop reading those self-help articles, man,” he says, giving a small shudder. “You’re creeping me out.” Justin laughs, and Chris hugs him, suddenly. “I mean it, kid. You’ve pretty much got everything a guy could want. Britney was a lifetime ago. I wish you’d move on already.”

“Not that easy,” he replies. “And you should know that, too.” He’s getting better at this, too, at not naming names, at misdirection. Britney had slapped him in the face and stolen his house and his airtime, but Chris makes it sound like she’d stolen his heart as well. She hadn’t.

But she’d hit close enough.

 

Justin is twenty two years old and he can have pretty much anything he wants.

He’s an international pop sensation, one fifth of the one of the biggest acts in the world and his first solo endeavor went and is still going pretty well, despite all the skeptics and the ones waiting for him to fall flat on his face.

He’s been named hottest, coolest, best, brightest, most. He can have jets fly him all over the globe at a moment’s notice. He can have entire malls shut down when he goes sneaker shopping. Not that he even needs to, because they send him stuff that isn’t even on the market yet. All he has to do is smile, sometimes sway his hips, and he gets stuff thrown at him. Hell, all he has to do is smile and people throw _themselves_ at him. He can pretty much get anyone he wants into bed. Or against a wall. Or on a golf course. Anyone, anywhere.

Justin can pretty much have anything he wants.

But all he can think about are the things he can’t have.

 

Chris drags him back to the meeting and the other guys try to pretend that everything that happened before didn’t. Now they talk of plans – songs, concerts, schedules, strategies. They all agree that they’re glad to be back together again. Chris even sings it.

Justin wonders if he’s the only one who feels it, if he’s the only one who feels so off and unsettled.

He’s not unhappy to be one of five again, but there’s a definite charge in the air that wasn’t there before.

He hadn’t been the first one who’d brought up the idea of the hiatus, but everyone points to him, perhaps because he was the first one to have an actual plan. No one knows he made the album because he was scared shitless at the thought of being alone and working and music are all he knows. The music had raged inside him, even without four other voices, four other hearts to fuel it, and he had been both elated and terrified that it had still found its way out. He thinks now the others must have experienced the same thing. Maybe that was the source of this shift in the matrix. Because they all know now. That they don’t have to be one of five forever. That if tomorrow they decide to quit for real, if they all walk away, it still wouldn’t end. None of them would die from the loss, or shun the world, or even fade into obscurity.

Instead of being a source of comfort and relief, however, the knowledge thrusts a blade of fear into his heart. It all seems so horrifyingly possible now. They love each other, but they’ve proven they can stand apart. If they wake up tomorrow and there was no more *N Sync, they’d survive.

The very idea makes Justin ill.

 

The meeting ends, not soon enough for Justin.

“J,” Joey calls out, just as he’s getting into his car. “You’ll be there for C’s thing, right?”

JC is throwing another one of his endless parties, a back-to-work-reunion party. JC’s happy they’re back together again, back to working. It’s supposed to be a big thing. But then, JC throws parties for finding matching silverware, so.

Justin’s not in the mood, but it’s Joey and if Justin says no there’ll only be a long convoluted exchange of whys and why nots and it’s easier to just say yes. “I’ll catch up later,” he says, “got things to do before.”

Joey raises an eyebrow, half-questioning, half-teasing. But Joey won’t pry until he thinks there’s something really seriously wrong. Even then he’ll probably try and get Justin drunk first. “’Kay. See you later, then.”

When he’s sure the other guys are way ahead of him and none of them will see, Justin pulls over at the side of the road and just sits for a while.

During the meeting, as Chris had lectured and Lance had glowered and Joey had tried to play peacemaker, JC had given him a Look. One which, considering how long they’ve known each other, how long the group has been together, Justin thinks he should know how to interpret by now, but doesn’t.

JC’s eyes are blue. A mercurial shifting blue, depending on his mood and what he’s thinking. Today they’d looked almost gray.

He watches JC too much, he knows this. He thinks about JC too much. He wishes it’s only because he doesn’t understand JC.

It’s no secret that he doesn’t get JC most of the time. Not even Chris or Lance, who Justin thinks are downright brilliant, get JC. They’ve all done their share of rolling their eyes whenever JC goes off tangent or spouts non sequiturs or launches into an explanation of transcendental aromatherapy or whatever he’s into at the moment. JC is this inexplicable fey creature, Chris said once, and Justin has to agree.

But there are times when Justin does get JC, moments on stage, or when working, or when they collaborate, that they just instinctively understand each other. He and Chris can finish each other’s sentences, but JC and he can finish each other’s lines and motions. Moves and countermoves, melodies and counterpoints. This is the language they share, the language that allows him an occasional glimpse, an insight into the kaleidoscope core of JC. Justin is awed and blinded every time.

He doesn’t really know when those dreams started, those dreams of him and JC dancing, moving together like they’d never be allowed to on stage. Dreams where it goes further, when the movements change flavor, where there’s nothing but them and skin, where they’re closer than close. Sometimes he wakes from these dreams in actual pain, the sense of loss a tangible pressure in heart, the wanting a fire in his stomach. The only thing worse than waking up from those dreams, alone and wanting, is to not have them at all.

Justin had harbored some dim hope that the hiatus would help, but it hadn’t. He’d missed JC everyday. He’d missed them all, but it was not seeing JC that had made the time alone so unbearable. No JC sleeping on the bus bunk, or giggling at some antic of Chris and Joey’s, no JC sashaying on stage, no blue eyes blinking and smiling at him sleepily over his first cup of coffee of the day.

But as bad as the separation had been, the reunion had even been worse.

JC’s new hair, his slightly rougher edges. They make Justin’s fingers itch with the need to touch. Justin grumbles to himself that he’d had never looked that hot when had long hair, his curls had only punctuated his youth. Even when he tries to grow a beard people just think it’s cute.

It’s not fair, Justin thinks, that JC can look this unkempt and unsanitary and still look completely lickable.

The worst thing, Justin thinks, is JC moves differently these days. These days he doesn’t bounce as much as stride, doesn’t walk as much as stalk. His smile isn’t that full-blown thousand-watt grin, but a lazy, almost feline smirk that makes Justin nervous and miss JC, the JC he thinks he almost knows, even more.

Justin thinks that during the hiatus, JC may have gone out there and found something, someone entirely new, while he had found only more of the same, of himself.

 

JC’s party good in that almost everyone JC knows is pretty cool and pretty with it. Anyone who makes it into JC’s inner circle has to be, because JC just doesn’t function in the ordinary world of ordinary people. There are some names, some people from the industry, but rest of the guests seem to be fairy people, all sparkly and happy. One group seemed to be doing an impromptu rendition of Romeo and Juliet. He recognizes the lines about love being a prick. Or something like that.

The guy playing Mercutio looks at him as he passes, and smiles. He has blue eyes. Justin files that away for future reference.

JC is busy playing host, Tara working the coveted position by his side for all it’s worth. Justin manages a small smile as she points out where the food and the bar are with her left hand while her right hand is firmly inside one of the back pockets of JC’s jeans. At one point he’s almost sure that Tara bared her teeth at him in a feral, predatory grin, but that could have just been his imagination.

Chris ambushes him just as he reaches the open bar, pouncing on him with almost painful enthusiasm. Justin prepares himself for another lecture but for the moment Chris seems to have found another outlet for his worrying.

Joey is already making his rounds among the ladies, but Lance is MIA, seemingly with no explanation. It’s not like Lance to miss a party but both Joey and JC seem unconcerned, in fact sharing a look that plainly states they know something that Chris doesn’t. Which is probably what’s driving Chris insane.

Justin decides to take the opportunity for a little more distraction.

“Lance is miserable,” he points out, helpfully. “A lot more miserable than I am. How come you’re not giving _him_ a hard time?”

Chris is sad and quiet an entire second before he recovers. “Lance is allowed to be miserable,” Chris sniffs, finally. “We all know what he’s miserable about. And dude, if I got that close to my dream, worked that hard, only to have it slip through my fingers I’d be miserable, too.” He grins at Justin. “But you, golden boy, you don’t got that excuse. Your album shone. You got it all. So.”

“I don’t have it all,” Justin says, almost growls.

“You’ve got it all, man,” Chris repeats.

“I do not.”

“Do, too.” Chris sticks out his tongue for good measure. “Golden boy. That artsy-fartsy magazine said so. If it was Teen People I’d be sort of skeptical, but dude--”

“Shut up. I do not.”

Chris ignores him and continues, rolling his eyes expressively. “And for the record, if I had Nick freaking Carter go down on me on a golf course I’d be a lot happier than Your Mopiness is being. I’m just saying.”

Justin scowls and Chris stares back. It’s pretty much a stalemate until Chris makes a face and a laugh forces itself out of Justin. Chris says “Ha!” as if that won him the argument, grins unrepentantly, and makes his exit. Chris can have perfect timing when it suits him.

Chris is his best friend.

But even Chris doesn’t understand.

 

Later, much later, after he’s had enough to drink that the idea of another lecture from Chris doesn’t faze him, Justin follows Mercutio up the stairs into a spare bedroom.

He knows what he’s doing. Both Lance and JC have psych texts all over the place, for different purposes, and he’s not so stupid or so out of it he can’t recognize when something applies to him.

Justin can pretty much have anything he wants.

Pretty much being the operative words.

He can’t make all the detractors go away, couldn’t make his relationship with Britney work no matter how hard he worked at it, and he can’t stop thinking of blue eyes blinking sleepily, a smiling mouth and the way long lithe limbs move on stage or on a dance floor.

He can’t have what he wants, so he settles for what he can get.

So he fucks Nick. Nick is hot and sweet and a lot of fun. He laughs a lot, amused by the strangest things. He’s more stable and easygoing than anyone with his life has the right to be. He’s also a lot more flexible than his frame would suggest. Nick sings, though Justin finds his taste in music both boring and juvenile, and sometimes, as they lie in bed Nick sort of croons in his ear, completely unselfconscious. When they talk, when they actually talk, of music or the business, Justin doesn’t have to explain anything. Nick is something he sort of wants and he’s something Justin can have. They play the ‘do you know’ and ‘remember when’ game well enough to pretend they actually really have a basis for a relationship. Nick has blue eyes and he’s close enough.

Mercutio doesn’t even need that much. As long as Justin can look into blue eyes and pretend.

They don’t even bother with introductions or lights; Justin just pushes Mercutio against the wall and kisses him. He’s being rough, but Mercutio just laughs. He seems to like it. Justin likes that, too.

Justin’s drunk and it’s dark and he doesn’t know how long they stand there, just kissing and groping each other. It occurs to him that maybe they should be doing more, but this seems okay, too.

Downstairs, somewhere, there are people singing some song about blood and vampires and it sounds happier than its lyrics suggest.

They find a bed, and things get serious really fast. Mercutio’s straddling Justin while doing interesting things to his belly button. Mercutio’s very artistic, yes. Very talented hands.

“You got anything?” Mercutio whispers, and Justin groans because he doesn’t. Merc laughs. “Don’t sweat it. This is a party, there’s gotta be some somewhere.” He kisses Justin full on the mouth. “Don’t go anywhere,” he says, then actually _skips_ out. JC’s friends are strange, Justin thinks. Hot, but strange.

There’s a curious set of cracks on the ceiling above the bed and Justin wonders why JC hasn’t gotten it fixed, until he realizes that the cracks are actually a sort of swirly design in dimly luminescent paint. Clouds, he thinks, or smoke. Tendrils of pale silvery vines. It’s strangely fascinating, hinting of movement. He studies it, trying to figure out the patterns. It’s a long time before he realizes that Mercutio hasn’t come back, isn’t coming back.

He wonders if he should be insulted, but all he can manage is a lukewarm ‘oh, well.’

He can’t find his shoes. He quirks an eyebrow at that, he can’t remember taking them off. He wonders if Mercutio had absconded with them, and grins. Fucking absconded, he thinks, amused by the word.

‘Oh well’ on the shoes, too, then. It’s not like he can’t afford them. At least he’s still got his socks. And his pants.

He grins again.

The house is strangely quiet as he goes down the stairs. He finds JC at the front door, waving goodbye to the last of his guests. Now _that_ doesn’t make sense, he hasn’t been gone _that_ long, he’s sure.

“C,” Justin complains, pouting, “you made the party go away. Make it come back.”

JC turns to give him a slow and measured look. “It’s my house,” he replies, softly. “I decide when the party’s over.”

“Spoilsport,” Justin mutters. “Well, then.” He leans against the wall and starts patting his pockets looking for his cellphone, idly wondering if Mercutio had absconded with that, too, if E! will feature it and his shoes breaking sales records at Ebay. “Where’s Todd? There’s gotta be another party going on somewhere we can crash.”

The click of the front door closing resounds in the now-empty room and Justin lifts his head to see JC walking towards him, slowly, purposefully. Justin is suddenly wary. When JC stops right in front of him, one arm casually resting on the wall near Justin’s head, his senses prickle. He’s seen that kind of look a thousand times before, but never from JC.

Justin has known JC since he was twelve years old. They’ve spent the last eight or so years living in each other’s pockets. But right now, more than ever, he feels like he doesn’t know JC at all.

Lance called JC a pretty kitten once, tousling JC’s hair as he was curled up on the bus sofa with his head on Lance’s lap. JC had just grinned lazily up and at Lance and settled in happily for a long nap. From then on they all called him that from time to time because it was so appropriate. Chris found it particularly amusing when JC would perk up and become completely interested in something, go chasing after it. Joey liked it best when JC got touchy-feely and snuggled for warmth and attention. And Lance liked it when JC got snipey. Chris was great at the banter and caustic remarks, but JC was so cute when he was being pouty and petulant, which admittedly wasn’t often.

Justin realizes then that they made a mistake when they didn’t take the cat analogy far enough.

Maybe he should have known, should have suspected. Because as laid-back and easy going as JC is most times, they know that when he focuses, when he’s there, he’s sharper and brighter than a diamond. When he focuses, his eyes can burn right through a person like lasers.

But how could they have known, really? All the years the group’s been together and none of them has ever seen JC hunt.

“The teen queen gone?” Justin asks, because he’s unnerved and drunk and can’t think.

JC’s eyes narrow. “Don’t diss Tara,” he said, lowly. “I know you don’t like her but she’s my friend and she’s been good to me. Helped me figure a few things out, gain a new perspective.”

“Yeah, I know,” Justin tries to sneer. “We all have her to thank for this sudden fear of scissors and washcloths.”

JC just raises an eyebrow. “And I suppose I should look to your ‘friends’ for examples of acceptable behavior? Will they teach me to cavort naked on the ninth green? Because I must admit, that has been sorely lacking from my education thus far.”

Justin smirks, then gasps as JC is suddenly pressed against him, his face nearly touching his.

He can feel JC’s breath tickling his ear, and suddenly Justin can’t breathe. “Jayce—”

“Nick?” JC challenges, softly. “What was it, all those rugged muscles, all that golden hair?” There’s a slight edge of sarcasm there, Justin thinks, but he isn’t sure. JC isn’t one to resort to it very often. “Was he worth it? Did he make you scream?”

He tries, halfheartedly, to struggle, but JC won’t be moved. Justin is caught in the glare of JC’s eyes, sapphire blue, almost indigo, and there isn’t anything in them he recognizes. “C?”

“I am so mad at you right now,” JC continues, and his voice is suddenly as dark and as hard as his eyes. “I’m tired of this, do you understand? I’m tired of you fucking everything and everyone that so much as smiles at you. I don’t blame you, and I sure as hell don’t blame them, but I’m tired.” He reaches down and grabs Justin’s wrist, pulling it up to face level and pinning it to his side in an unmistakable gesture of domination. “So, since you seem to be on the verge of destroying everything anyway, since we’re on the edge of never speaking to each other again, since you keep putting blocks and distances between us, how about I help you? How about I give you a real reason to hate me?”

Justin’s sure JC is going to hit him. But wait, wasn’t that against JC’s religion or something? But he’s sure JC’s going to do _something,_ there’s just that look, that tone to his voice, that when JC moves Justin involuntarily flinches and closes his eyes, waiting for it.

Distantly, he realizes something. Why he’s not shrugging or shaking JC off. Why he’s not fighting. Anything, he thinks. Because anything JC has to give him, he wants.

He bites his lip, stopping the words from escaping.

He feels teeth on his lower lip, teeth that aren’t his own, coaxing it free, for his mouth to open. And when it does, JC’s tongue licks at the two sets of teeth marks there.

Justin whimpers, but JC continues, soothing his lip, then coaxing his mouth to open further. When he succeeds his tongue sweeps in and claims Justin’s. Justin just shivers, helplessly open but too weak, too overwhelmed to respond.

He feels JC move, a hand landing lightly on his neck and he tells himself not to flinch again. Fingers move idly, tracing, searching for a pulse. When found it flutters helplessly, then races. Justin’s breath hitches and JC allows him to pull away. “C, please--”

“Shhh,” says JC, dark and husky, “or I’ll have to gag you.” A low laugh. “And that would be such a waste considering the plans I have for this mouth.”

Justin’s eyes fly open, meeting JC’s perfectly calm, perfectly serious eyes, and he suppresses a shudder. JC holds Justin’s gaze as his hand moves down, down Justin’s throat and to his breastbone. Somehow JC’s hand has slipped through the slit of his shirt, between buttons, and he can feel skin on skin. His other hand still holds Justin’s wrist, and Justin tries to focus on that point of contact. JC’s hands are stronger than they look, the buttons are torn one by one until Justin’s shirt finally lies open. There’s still only brief touches but he shivers and shudders at every one.

JC’s hand moves down again, bare fingertips skimming the edges of his waist, the barrier of his leather pants. Again, somehow, despite the tightness JC’s fingers manage to slide under, cupping Justin’s already rock-hard dick. JC smirks as he forces another gasp from Justin.

“You’ll fuck anyone, won’t you?” JC asks, still softly, the touch on his groin as gentle as the hand on his wrist is unmovable. “But do you let them fuck you?”

A strangled sound escapes Justin. “JC—” He can’t continue. JC’s too close, his breath warming his skin. It’s insane, JC’s hands on his body, and JC’s breath on his skin, and it’s his eyes, always his eyes, that hold him hostage.

“You never did know when to quit,” JC whispers. “Always pushing and pushing, you never knew when to shut up.”

Every word makes Justin weak, weaker. He’s always been aware of the power of JC’s voice, but it had always been used to lift, carry people up or down, depending on the song he was singing. This is the first time Justin has heard JC’s voice used for this. Justin had thought once that Lance had the best voice. He was wrong. This sibilant whisper goes straight through brain to his groin. And his heart, he can’t even think about what this voice does to his heart.

“I could take you, couldn’t I?” JC continues. “Here and now and it wouldn’t matter how much it hurt, you’d still want more.” JC chuckles again and Justin is helpless to do anything but shiver. “But that wouldn’t be any fun. Me, I like playing with my toys before I break them.”

Justin’s leather pants are butter soft, and the zipper makes no sound as it is pulled slowly down. Belatedly Justin realizes that both his hands are free. He wants so badly to touch JC but he can’t.

One fluid movement and JC’s shirt lies on the floor, and when he presses himself against Justin the heat, skin on skin heat, is a hundred times more intense than anything he’s ever had with Nick or Britney or anyone else.

His pants are completely open now, if they weren’t skintight they’d be down to his ankles. JC has one hand on his shoulder, anchoring him, while his other hand continues to caress Justin’s penis. Justin’s hips move in spite of him, in search of friction, of pressure, of release.

JC’s hands move to his hips, holding them still. He whimpers and pants but JC won’t give him more. “You want this, don’t you?” JC asks, and there’s no longer any humor in his voice, just an almost plaintive curiosity. “You’re not afraid. You should be. I want to hurt you. And I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hurt anyone in my life.”

“JC, please,” Justin pleads. He’s willing to promise anything, give anything, if JC would just move. If JC would just let him move. “Please, JC.”

JC looks him straight in the eye. “Go on,” he whispers.

“Please, JC—”

“You’ve been saying that all night. Tell me all of it. Tell me what you want.”

“JC, please, I--” Justin can’t. For some reason, the words won’t come. He’s too afraid, of what he feels, of the consequences. He’s wanted this too much, for too long, he’s grown too good at keeping it inside. “We can’t,” Justin says, finally, weakly. “We can’t.”

JC smirks, because Justin’s body is still hard and straining against him. He pulls Justin’s hip closer to his for emphasis. “You’re sure?”

Justin groans at the contact. He can’t think. “Chris,” he blurts out, stupidly. “Chris will kill me.”

JC’s hands tighten on his hips, strong for all their seeming elegance. His eyes have changed again, dark and shadowed. “Chris?” he repeats, softly. There’s something there. JC’s voice can carry a hundred different emotions in a single chord and Justin can’t tell what’s coloring it now. “Chris?” Justin can’t read it but he’s suddenly afraid again.

“Chris,” Justin says. “We... we can’t.”

Something flickers in JC’s eyes again. “I think you should go back to shutting up now,” he says. “You should just keep your mouth shut. In fact, let me shut it for you.”

JC’s hand rises to cup Justin’s face, holding it captive for his kiss. This time Justin is helpless _not_ to respond, and opening his mouth, returning JC’s kiss. JC’s other hand moves down again, and this time the pressure and the intent is unmistakable. JC’s mouth swallows every groan and whimper he squeezes from Justin.

JC starts licking at Justin’s jaw, at his throat, moving down with an obvious target. Even with his eyes closed, Justin can trace JC’s every movement. Mouth, lips and tongue mapping the surface of his skin. He’s so hard he can’t even breathe, and the moment JC’s mouth touches his dick he comes, hard.

JC laughs.

 

After the lawsuit, after they’d won, after they were free, Chris had turned to him, eyes bright as they’d been in the beginning, when they’d first been allowed a glimmer of their dreams.

When they’d heard the news, Chris had turned to him. “This is it, Jup,” he’d said. “We get to decide now. What we are, what we’re going to be. Nobody can screw us up now.” He’d paused, a fraction, his gaze straying to where Joey and Lance sat together, grinning tiredly and giving each other hi-fives. “Nobody but us.”

Chris isn’t just talking. He’s been looking at Lance since Lance was eighteen, probably longer, and he’s never made a move, never even let Lance see. And he’s never let himself see, either, that Lance looks back when he thinks Chris isn’t looking, or that when Chris makes jokes about them dating or Lance being pretty or him having a nice ass Lance goes still and pale and grits his teeth just so. He doesn’t let himself see the longing there or the anger. And he didn’t let himself see when Lance stopped looking at him and started looking up at the sky.

Sometimes Justin really really hates Chris.

Justin wishes he could do that, have that much self-discipline. He wishes he could make his mind obey him, hide the truth so deep that even he couldn’t find it. But he can’t. All he can do is transfer. All he can do is focus on something else. Something different. All he needs is one thing, and it’s close enough.

 

He comes, hard, his shaking legs finally buckling under him. JC’s already on his knees, and they end up staring at each other. JC laughs. “On the floor?” he asks, and there’s still laughter there, but laughter dark and dangerous. “That works, too.”

Justin can only stare. Nothing in him works. He lets himself be maneuvered as JC relieves him of his shirt. When JC places a hand on his leg, tugging Justin’s pants down, Justin knows what’s coming next.

“You want me,” JC says, something in his tone demanding agreement. “You want this.”

Justin nods, helplessly.

“How long?” JC asks. “Since when?”

Justin swallows. “Since always,” he answers.

JC smiles, a small triumphant smile, and he starts tugging at Justin’s pants more determinedly.

Justin finds the strength, somewhere, to grab JC’s hands and still them. “I can’t do this,” he says again. “Chris.”

JC shuts his eyes for a moment, and when they open they are almost as black as Chris’ eyes. “Stop saying his name,” he orders, almost growls. “Stop or I really _will_ hurt you.”

But Justin keeps hearing Chris in his head. *Nobody can screw us up but us.* He sees Chris with an absolutely heartbreaking look of yearning on his face and doing nothing, not even now, when Lance is so unhappy. And Justin has been one of five too long, he can’t help but think of Chris’ mom and sisters, Joey’s daughter. It will be too easy, they’ve all grown so far apart as it is. He can’t mess up the group or he’ll have nothing, not even JC on stage and at arm’s length.

“JC, no, the group, I can’t.” He’s babbling, making no sense at all, and he knows it, but it’s all he can come up with. “I can’t. I can’t, not the group.”

“The group?” JC frowns. “What?”

“I can’t do it. I need you guys too much.”

“Justin,” JC says. “You need to explain that to me.”

“If we—” Justin blushes, which is incredible and stupid, considering what had already happened. “It’ll screw us up. The group. I can’t.”

JC’s frown deepens. “Is that what you think?” he asks. “After all that shit we’ve been through, hell, after this damned hiatus, that if all that didn’t screw us up, sleeping together will?” JC’s tone implies that it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s heard in his life. And this is JC, who thinks talking baby-talk to his car makes it run more smoothly.

Justin’s blush deepens. Put that way, it does sound sort of stupid. “Ummm... yes?”

JC stares at Justin incredulously, his expression indescribable. “Oh, _fuck._” He starts to giggle. Just like that, the cloud disperses, and it’s the old JC before Justin’s eyes, giggling with his entire body, amusement leaking from every pore. “And Chris told you this?” he questions, gasping, eyes sparkling, bright aquamarine.

Justin thinks about it. Come to think of it, Chris never did say that. “Well,” he concedes, “not exactly. He kind of... implied.”

“Implied?”

Justin shrugs. “You know.”

“I do?”

Justin sighs, lies down on the floor, not even bothering to pull up his pants. “Lance.”

JC leans over him, places one hand on his bare stomach. “Lance?”

Justin inhales sharply. “Him and Lance.” He waves his arm in a vague gesture. “You know, all this time.”

JC does know, apparently, because he nods. And his hand starts to move. “And it’s never occurred to you that Chris is a freak? And worse than that, a freak with commitment issues? And Lance is another freak with commitment issues, only it’s the other way around and he just plain refuses to be with anybody who isn’t a hundred percent committed?”

Justin is fascinated, both with what JC is saying and the amusement on his face. He just stares, until JC giggles again, and reaches into Justin’s pants pocket. He pulls out the cellphone that Justin had been looking for, and punches the speed dial.

“Chris?” he says into the speaker, leaning down to rub his nose against Justin’s affectionately, nevermind their state of lascivious undress. “I thought you should know that I have Justin naked on my hallway floor and I intend to fuck him till he can’t walk. So, you know, no early morning meeting tomorrow, okay?” JC moves the phone away from his ear just as Justin hears Chris’ scandalized squawks over the receiver. “No, I’m not drunk,” JC says, eyes twinkling, “and neither is he, not anymore.” More squawking. JC laughs and waggles his eyebrows at Justin. “What, you want details? A blow by blow account?”

Even from his position Justin could hear the yelp and the sudden disconnection. It’s vaguely surreal, until something clicks inside Justin, and suddenly everything falls into place. “You were jealous of Chris,” he says, wonderingly.

JC shrugs, good-naturedly, tossing the cellphone away, hands going to his own waist to unbutton his jeans. “I was jealous of all of them,” he admits, simply. “For a moment there I thought--”

“Chris?” Justin grimaces, grossed out by the very idea. Chris is his best friend, but, come on. “Wait, all of them?” The idea is both mind-boggling and heart-stopping. He reaches out, holds JC’s face in his hands. “For how long?” he asks. “Since when?”

JC smiles, softly. “Since always.”

Justin smiles back and reaches up to kiss JC softly, tenderly on the mouth. Then he pushes JC’s hands away, attacking the jeans and at the same time using his toes to get his pants and underwear the rest of the way off.

When they’re completely naked JC leans over him while Justin urges him to hurry. Justin’s love for JC grows a thousand-fold when he magically produces lube and a condom from only God knows where. He tells JC this, a couple of dozen times, before JC slides, hot and heavy and into him and his vocabulary is reduced to JC’s name and incoherent one-word pleas.

Harder.

Faster.

Yes.

More.

Again.

_Now._

At the critical moment, Justin looks up and he doesn’t see blue eyes at all. He sees JC. It’s nowhere near close enough.

It’s everything.

 

Epilogue

 

A loud knocking wakes Justin up. He opens one eye cautiously, testing his vulnerability to sunlight.

“Yo, C! You in there?”

C? Justin thinks, just as something stirs on the bed beside him. And the bed, it’s not his. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t even _have_ bedsheets in teal and scarlet silk with gold accents. And tassels.

JC is _purring._ Justin can’t help himself, he leans down and nuzzles his face until JC opens his eyes, crinkly and blue and it’s everything Justin has ever, could ever, want. JC’s smiling even before he’s fully awake.

Chris barges uninvited into the bedroom. “Argh!” he screams dramatically when he sees them. “My eyes! My eyes!”

Justin throws a pillow at his head, which he cheerfully catches, and then uses to hit Justin over the head with. “It isn’t your naked hinies,” he says, cheerfully, “it’s this bedspread. Dear Lord, Jayce, you never told me you had this Maharajah kink. Is there an elephant hiding in the closet? You know, there’d be space for it there now since you’ve both come out.”

JC tries to ignore him, cuddling closer to Justin, but Chris teases the end of his nose with a tassel. JC bats at it sleepily, wrinkling his nose in irritation. Justin takes the tassel away from Chris.

“So this is okay?’ Justin asks, quietly. “I mean, you’re okay with it?”

“You and C?” Chris replies. “Who the fuck cares? I mean, I do, but well, I don’t. Except, yeah.” Chris frowns, then shakes his head, as if trying to clear it. “But that’s not what I’m here for.”

“You didn’t come here to defend my honor?” Justin asks, trying not to be too obviously relieved. “What kind of best friend are you?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What _are_ you here for, Chris?” JC interrupts, still not completely opening his eyes. “Because we need you to get to it and then leave. Like, _right now._”

“Why, you plan on getting freaky again? Oh, eww. Should I say that again, with more feeling? _Ewwwwww._”

“Chris,” JC finally sits up and glares at him. “Why are you here?” He looks so cute that Justin has to kiss his naked shoulder.

“Well, not for you, that’s for sure. What do I care if you guys get freaky with each other? As long as you don’t do it in front of me. My virginal eyes, and all that. It’s just that...”

“Chris...”

Chris grimaces. “Joey’s being an ass.”

“Excuse me?” Justin asks.

“He won’t tell me where he is.”

Justin blinks as JC grins, peeking at him from under very long lashes.

“Joey won’t tell you where Joey is?” Justin asks. He’s sort of confused; it’s difficult to maintain thought processes when JC is rubbing his knee under the blanket like that.

“No,” Chris replies, and why there should be sarcasm in his tone Justin isn’t sure of either. And doesn’t care. “He won’t tell me where _Lance_ is.”

JC smiles. “Lance?” he answers, serenely. “Lance is in Russia.”

“What?” Chris sputters. “Russia?”

“Uhm.”

“Russia?”

“Yep,” JC answers.

“_Russia_ Russia?”

“Yep. He went back.”

“He went back?”

“Yep.”

“Lance went back to Russia?”

“You seem to be having some trouble dealing with the concept,” JC smirks. “Yes, Lance has gone back to Russia. He finally got tired of moping and he’s decided he’s going to make them give him what he wants. So he’s getting serious and bringing out the big guns. No more kissing ass. Although, I’ve seen a few Russian boys where that wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Oh.” Chris bites his lip, stares down at his sneakers.

“You disapprove?” JC asks.

Chris shakes his head, slowly. “I just... I thought... I thought he’d... given up. Let go.”

JC laughs. “I really doubt anyone in this group understands the concept, Chris. Not when it comes to what we really want. Some of us are just very very good at holding off until the breaking point.” He sends Justin a sweet smile that Justin answers with one of his own.

Chris continues to stare at his shoes.

Justin hesitates. “Maybe you should go get what you want, too,” he says.

Chris looks confused. “What?”

Justin turns to JC. “You know where he’s staying, right?”

JC inclines his head. “I know the address of the hotel he usually uses, yes,” he admits.

“Give it to Chris.”

JC grins, hops out of bed and scribbles something on a pad that’s conveniently sitting on a bedside table. He tears off the page and hands it to Chris, who takes it and stares at it, looking pained and torn and wary.

“I hate to fly,” Chris says, finally.

“But you love Lance,” Justin says, quietly.

Chris seems dumbfounded. He stares at Justin, back at the paper in his hand, at his shoes, then back at Justin. “Fuck,” he says softly, and leaves quietly, without even saying goodbye.

JC sniffs a little, then hugs Justin tightly. “That was so sweet,” he says. “You’re a good friend.”

Justin grins. “I’m an even better lover,” he says.

It’s a promise.

 

THE END

JCSA © 2002


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